The webs of love are intricately spun:
passionate bodies and sudden bucks of lust,
mouths savored, goblets for gods' good drink,
rich from ancient harvests
of desire
and such helpless tenderness,
when all of that is done-

an unexpected sweetness
a tumble of words without a voice
and then-

bird song

Worries from past
sabotaging present
old memories
haunting tapestries
woven into now
wish they'd take a bow
and exit stage door
don't want them anymore

I think i shall also abandon poetry
and
write plain and simple prose
so many poems
on mothers did I compose
many were better than prose
as sentiments for mothers... we... can only convey
once in a life's unique way

as nothing on earth can replace a mother
why...
because only she does lifelong bother
to be with us all our lives

mothers love comes before wives
even after she has left

Oh my gosh
what a surprise

Evening
the day after,
mascara on the sheets
tissues on the floor
a Tumbler on its side

Aching limbs
tortured eyes
a mouth that
cannot smile

It wasn't real
Just a horrible dream
and these tears ?
I think
I have something
In my eye

the fine dream
like fire mists
a sun behind
the crystal kiss

I drift to three decades ago
standing beside wife's birthing bed
when time and space appeared to slow
as wide eyes blinked from new son's head.

A wee bundle of what might be
held in this carpenter's tanned arm.
His trust directed straight at me.
Trust that I'd keep him from harm.

For thirty years I've done my best.
Raising a child is never done.
A new father now begins His quest,
this young man who is still my son.

Before you stand we
the blessed fruits of your womb
before your frigid stillness we stand
With heart heavy, broken and bitter
we stand before you rent cocoon,
crushed carapace of tender warmth
lying in the cold grip of death

Paragon of virtue,
the serpent had struck
tell me what broke the hedge?
Was faith bartered for fear?
Love for hate?
Guileless garments for ignoble robes?
Pain not death was the Evic curse;
why then has the joy of procreation
Brought tears in this stygian harvest of death?

Wheels of feeling spin about the heart
and lungs, in blood, in air, in muscles,
start up rhythms that impart an impact on the brain,
a strain that tempts the nerves to do their special dance
and prance about from head to toe;
electric impulses that goad the body
into spasms wonderful, and stark,
as, set in swing, they carry out their tasks,
even though we didn't ask them to begin.

There was this poem
I tried to write
But it escaped like a fish
While I was fishing
In the river of my mind
Where things just didn't make any sense at all.
I swear...
It slipped off my hands!
Such a slimy fish
Swimming and running away!
I knew I wanted it
A magnificent catch to behold
Too elusive to touch!
I knew I'd better be dead
If I didn't get hold
Of that little thing faster than I was.
I thought to myself
If I caught that damn fishy,
I would be hailed

Avoiding your eyes
they're guilting me
my inadvertent sighs
you, I pity

Whatever we had
for me, it's gone
I'm a coward
we carry on